Paris Part 3 of Sophie and Tara's story
by SophieDevereauxtoo
Summary: Sophie is working in Paris when she runs into an old friend, a very angry old friend.


Paris. Spring 1999.

Paris in the spring. This is the way all of the world should be. Soft misty mornings and cool evenings just made for walking arm in arm with a lover. The trees are in bloom and the air is heavily perfumed. I do love Paris in the spring time. I've been here about a week now and I've been busy.

Paris is the most wonderful place in the world to shop and I have made a significant contribution to the local economy. Tonight I am passing time in an outdoor cafe overlooking the Seine. I have a romance novel in my hand. I am only pretending to read as I nibble on bread and nurse my wine. My bags of expensive shoes and clothing are scattered around my feet. I've been waiting. And watching. Mostly waiting.

There is a good looking older couple sitting at a table outside of a neighboring cafe. They are in their late 40's. They lean close and tell each other secrets that only lovers tell. They have been married a long time. Just not to each other. 

The gentleman is not known by many here in Paris. He has travelled here from Great Britain. He has brought his lady friend under the guise of a lovers tryst but he is really here on business. 

The gentleman, no, he is no gentleman. Being a thief I can forgive, even admire if he is good at it but a cheater? No that is not acceptable to me at all

The not so gentleman is a collector of fine art. We share that interest. He is here to buy a painting. A very famous and expensive painting. A painting that has been missing from Paris for over 60 years. No one knows where this painting really is. Some think it may have been destroyed in a fire. Others think that it may have been stolen by the Nazis. Hitler was a nasty evil little man but he did have splendid taste in art. In fact I currently own several pieces that were once part of his personal collection.

The not so gentleman leans in and gives his girlfriend an inappropriate sloppy kiss. Very bad taste to do that in public, even in France. I sigh. There will not be any business being done tonight. At least not the type of business I am interested in. I will wait until they leave. I will tuck away my book and gather my bags and drop a note on the table for my patient waiter. A woman who orders a basket of bread and a glass of wine and seems to be in no hurry to vacate her table is not going to pay his rent for the week. Another sigh. I drop another note.

I follow the not so gentleman back to his hotel and wait for a bit. I just need to be sure I haven't misread the not so gentleman's intentions. I need to be sure that he will not be sneaking back out to conduct his illicit business. I don't really think he will. It would have be hard to misread the distastefully steamy scene in front of me. I rarely misread a scene.

The not so gentleman is staying at a fine hotel. An expensive hotel. I imagine the view from his penthouse suite is spectacular. I wonder what his wife back in London is doing now. I hope she has a young Latin lover. I smile at the thought.

There has been no reappearance by the not so gentleman and I am certain is in for the night. I begin to feel I am overstaying my welcome in the hotel lobby. It is a nice hotel lobby. One could call it a beautiful hotel lobby. No one would ever be as interested in a hotel lobby as I appear to me.

I should return to my own hotel room. I should get some rest. I will need to be up early so that I can position myself at the café on the corner before the not so gentleman emerges. Sigh. He will probably be sleeping in.

I don't feel much like sleep. I am still feeling a buzz from the game. There are not many things that compare to the thrill of the chase. Maybe sex. Maybe the end game when pull the noose of my trap tight and collect my winnings. I like that part too. My, that was a mixed bag of metaphors there.

The hotel bar looks nice and I duck in for a cocktail or two. The lights are low and throwing shadows over the tables in the corners. The decorations are tasteful and subtle. A piano plays softly. This is the perfect setting for a steamy French rendezvous. The stools at the bar look welcoming and comfortable. There are several decent looking gentleman who I am sure would love to by me a drink.

I have recently developed an interest in absinthe and vodka. I don't really believe in the magical properties of absinthe but it tastes wonderful and makes me warm inside and just a little bit fuzzy.

While the bartender makes my drink I surreptitiously scan the room. Who will have the pleasure of paying for this delightful green potion. Him. He will work just fine. He looks like an exhausted businessman. He's just flown in from...where? Probably America. He looks American. I love Americans. At least I did once upon a time.

The path of least resistance will be to act friendly. Just a bit too friendly perhaps. This is the American's first time in France. His wife and kids are at home. In a few days he will have to go back to his boring life in Indiana or Ohio or someplace just as dreadful. If a pretty woman comes in to him in a bar in Paris he just might find the courage to take her to bed. Even if he has to pay for it.

The only thing left is to decide who I am. French? Is a French prostitute in a hotel bar in Paris too cliché'? Possibly. How about American? I love to be American. Americans can say the most absurd things in their terrible attempts to speak French or Italian or whatever and the world will just smile and nod and treat them as if they were silly children trying to act grown up. Yes, an American will be fun. I flash back to the American I once knew. She was fun. A lot of fun.

I move three stools closer to the American as I slide my drink along the bar. I stare hypnotically into the green of my drink as I move too close to the man. I bump his arm with my shoulder and he spills his drink. "Oh, excusez-moi" I exclaim in the worst French I can muster and still maintain a straight face. He fumbles trying desperately to remember any of the French phrases he memorized on the airplane.

I ask him if he speaks English. He looks immensely relieved. I desperately want to add "because your French sucks" but I restrain myself I switch to a Midwestern American accent with just a touch of the south mixed in. It is an accent I hear in my head every night.

We begin to talk while we nurse our drinks. He is Bob from Chicago. He has a wife and a house and 3 kids and a cat and he has never done anything like this before in his life. I stifle a yawn.

I am Jennie. I am from Paducah Kentucky. I moved to France to learn to paint great works of art. I have not yet become important for my work. I get lonely in my little studio sometimes. I like to come here and talk to people and take long walks in the moonlight. I gently brush his hand with mine.

The hook is set and I order myself another glass of green elixir. Bob orders himself a scotch. No make that a double. He's trying to find some liquid courage. It won't matter. I will finish my drink and thank Bob for his company. I will kiss him on the cheek and squeeze his hand with mine. I really did have a wonderful evening. It really is nice to talk to someone from back home after having to deal with all of those French snobs all day. Maybe we can meet here again tomorrow night? And then I will leave. Alone.

Bob offers to pay for my drinks and I smile broadly at him. That would be wonderful. I'm sure he will hide the charge in his expense account somewhere. The bartender waves him off and smiles. He brings me another drink and gestures toward a dark corner. Bob is somewhat surprised at the turn of events, a little disappointed even. I can't say I'm not surprised myself. I didn't see anyone in the corner but then I never really did look. That was not smart. I lost my focus after my long day of surveillance and boredom. I must always know my surroundings. Not to do so could be deadly.

I peer into the dark corner. There is a lone figure at the table but I can't make out who it might be. Likely it is just an admirer. This would certainly not be the first time I have been sent a drink in a bar. I take a sip of my drink and hold my glass up to the stranger. I nod and smile a thank you. "This was very kind of you but now you need to show me the next card" my smile says. Nine times out of ten, this will bring the stranger to the bar, a broad smile on his face. The gambit worked and he has been invited to my side to begin to work his magic on me

.

The figure in the corner does not respond to my invitation. Well that is curious. I wait but the stranger does not move. I wonder if it might be the not so gentleman. He saw me following him. He has come down to find out who I am and what I want. He is perhaps a bit smarter than I gave him credit for. I doubt it.

The stranger wants me to come to him. That's just a bit more effort than I am willing to give for a couple of drinks tonight, especially when I still have Bob at my side. I don't really need Bob anymore. I've had plenty to drink. I will just use him for a few more minutes before I leave. I want to make sure that the stranger in the dark corner understands that I have no intention of playing his little game. I turn back to Bob and give him a smile and touch his shoulder with my hand. "Thank God" he thinks. He was afraid that I had been stolen away. That he might miss out on his one chance at the big leagues.

I begin to feel antsy. Bob has found his courage and is making motions that we should "get out of this joint". He subtly slides his room key onto the bar top. I am really not paying him any attention. I can feel the stranger's eyes burning into my backside. It is not a comfortable feeling. I want to turn and stare back. I want to march over there and tell him what I think about this game he's playing. I want him to know that I can be mysterious and dangerous too.

Another thought flashes into my brain. The stranger could be that damn American art insurance guy. He does seem to show up at the most inopportune times. We've been playing hide and seek all over Europe. He seems determined that he's going to catch me at something or other. Sometimes I let him catch me. Almost. Just enough to keep him on the hook. He's a very good looking man. Fred. No Ford. I can't tell if it's the art I steal or me that his is most interested in. I let him get peeks of both before I disappear again. I don't want him to catch me tonight. I still have work to do here in Paris and Ford being here will make that work so much more difficult.

My curiosity finally takes over and I turn again. A slight movement in the corner. The candle on the table catches it and flashes gold at me. Too much god for just a little wedding ring. Maybe this stranger is more interesting than I had thought. I am here in Paris to acquire a painting but I am never above lifting some golden pretties from a kind stranger when I get the chance.

Bob slides his room key closer to me. He's squirming uncomfortably on his bar stool. I have a good idea why. I smile knowingly at him and his eyes glow bright. He will go first. I will follow. We will negotiate the terms of the transaction later. He walks quickly from the bar back towards the hotel lobby. I do not take his key. I hope he doesn't wait too long for me. Perhaps he will call his wife.

I take up my glass again. The bar is nearly empty now and the bartender is starting to look bored. He's waiting to see what I plan to do. If I don't do something soon he is going to lose interest in the whole affair. I catch another flash of gold from the corner. This is it Jennie. Go or stay. Flight or fight. Again my curiosity gets the better of me and I move toward the corner. My plan is to slide quickly into the booth, startling the stranger and putting me back on the advantage.

The material on the bench is slicker than I had anticipated and my silk dress catches some speed. My expected trajectory should have put me close enough to the stranger to surprise him but not actually make contact. Instead I find myself sliding awkwardly into the stranger's side, spilling my drink on to his lap. The stranger jumps and moves away. I laugh thinking the cold drink in his lap was probably as an appropriate response as any.

The stranger swears softly. I turn to scold him but words never leave my mouth. I am stunned to my core. With a flash of gold, the man, no not a man, the woman turns her face to mine. Tara! Oh my god it's Tara.

My heart skips and I feel as if I can't breathe. My stomach ties itself into knots and I start to feel a little queasy. Tara's eyes flash dangerously and she says in a low voice "hello Portia"

No words come to me and I find that my mouth is still hanging open in surprise. I try to recover some bit of my dignity by closing it. Tara continues without missing a beat. She's been practicing this speech for a long time. "Portia. But that's not really your name is it?" "Is it Jennie?" Is it something else? I thought I knew you. Damn it I was in love with you. But it was all just a game to you wasn't it? A little fun. Taking advantage of me. Using me and then just leaving me behind like I was yesterday's trash."

I try to look at Tara. I try to shake my head no. I want desperately to tell her she's wrong. I can't. I can't even look at her. I feel like being sick.

Tara leaves me without another word. I want to follow. I want to plead with her. I want to hold her and tell her that it was all a big mistake. I don't.

I sit at the table in the dark corner of the hotel bar in Paris for a very long time. I know that this meeting was inevitable. Tara and I move in similar circles. I had hoped that when we did meet again that it would go better. I know that I deserved everything that she said to me and more. I hope that Tara will come back to me but I know that will never happen. I hope that she won't hate me forever. Hope. That's a funny word. I can have hope with all my heart for something but that won't make it happen. Late into the night I finally leave the bar. It is raining now. The rain hides my tears.

I lay in my bed but sleep never comes. Every time I close my eyes, I see the pain and the anger in Tara's. Finally, as the sun starts to rise I give up and go to take a shower. I need to try to focus on the job at hand, I need to find the not so gentleman. I can't get caught up in my personal life again. I am a grifter, a thief. I need to work to survive. I work alone. Always have always will. I need to put aside any feelings that I have. Feelings knock me off my game. Feelings will get me imprisoned one day. Or killed.

I make my way back to the hotel to wait for the not so gentle man. I go to the café on the corner. I choose a table with a view of the hotel and order a croissant and an espresso. I ask for a local newspaper. I settle in to watch and to wait. I try to read but I can't see anything in front of me but Tara's sea blue eyes.

I follow the not so gentleman to his business meeting. He meets his contact in a dark alley behind an art gallery. God where did they find these people. As the dealer sneaks his buyer into the back door of the building I can't help but think that we must be part of some atrocious suspense movie.

The not so gentleman finally emerges from the building back into the dark alley. He has a brown paper wrapped package clutched under his arm. It looks remarkably like a framed painting. Idiots. His eyes dart up the alley then down the alley and back up again. Finally he's satisfied that he's alone. He never sees me. He walks quickly back to the busy street, looking so suspicious that he should be arrested for just being stupid. As he reaches the street, I close the space between us until we seem as if we are walking in tandem along the same path. He slows and hails a cab. Before he has a chance to pull the door of the car closed behind him, I jump in, bumping him with my hip hard enough that he has no choice but to move over for me, the painting wedged awkwardly between us. I start speaking very quickly in French about being late and needing a ride and isn't he such a gentleman and all. It doesn't really matter what I say, he doesn't have a clue. I give directions to the taxi driver, over-riding anything that the not so gentleman might have told him. We are not going back to the hotel. We are going to the train station.

Per my directions, the cab pulls to the curb in the thickest of the crowd. I begin gesturing wildly and yelling in French. I become more agitated and louder as the driver opens my door. I am beginning to attract attention. Several police officers look our way. The not so gentleman is bewildered. He has no idea what is going on but the last thing he wants is attention from the police and this suddenly crazy woman is going to get him arrested, or at least in a very sticky spot. I am louder now, screaming about my boyfriend and how he has threatened me and how he's trying to steal my painting from me. More people are looking. Some of the men are considering their opportunity to actually rescue a damsel in defense. The two police officers are beginning to walk our way. I become louder still. I put my hands on the painting and begin to pull it out my side of the cab. The not so gentleman snatches for it but I hold on tight. The police are almost here. The not so gentleman begins to panic. He has no good choices here. Letting go would mean he loses his painting as well as a large sum of money. Hanging on means that he will be confronted by the police and possibly a muscular young man or two. His eyes are wild. He his fingers clutch tighter to the painting, ripping the brown paper. I give him the eye. He will let go now or I will make sure his life will become very difficult. He glances one last time at the painting then to the scene outside and he lets go. I smile at him. I take the painting and disappear into the crowd muttering something about the audacity of the British.

I do not go back to Paris. My work is done there for now. I catch a train for Versailles. There is a beautiful little chateau where I will hide out for a few days before boarding a plane to London with my new acquisition. I will walk in the gardens and drink wine. I will wander the famous estate and dream of what it must have been like to live here in all of its opulence. The events of Paris will soon be behind me and I will begin to work on my next con.

But Paris is not behind me and I can't relax. There is no thrill and no satisfaction in a game well executed. Tara is in Paris. She is somewhere in the city and she hates me. I should try and find her. I should try and explain. I should. But I can't. At least not yet. I need to think. Have no idea what I might say if I do find her. I would love to take her in my arms and stroke her golden hair and tell her that it was all a mistake. That we can go back to Italy. That I can be Portia again if she wants me to be. It would all be a lie. Portia is dead. What we had and what we might have had is dead too. I will never get it back. This is who I am and this is the life I have chosen and damn be it to anyone who gets too close to me.

I suffer another long sleepless night.

The next few days are better. I don't feel so sorry for myself and the clean country air has helped to clear my mind. I will go back to Paris. I will find Tara and offer her some sort of explanation even if it is to tell her what a rotten human being I can be. I hope it will make Tara feel better. I don't imagine it will do much for me.

I pay to keep my room at the chateau for another two weeks and secure my painting in the back of the closet. On the train ride back to Paris I try to come up with some sort of plan to find Tara. I can go back to the hotel bar where we met but I doubt she will go back there. I am sure she is probably in town for some job or another. I will check my contacts and see if they know of anything hinky in the works. Other than that, I really haven't a clue. I am much better at hide than seek. This is just so far out of my skill set.

I spend my next few days in Paris contacting everyone I can think of, trying to get any word of a stunning tall blonde working in the area. I spread the word that I would be very grateful for any sort of credible information. I roam the streets during the day. I spend my evenings in the hotel bar. I cry in my bed at night.

I finally I get some sort of hint about Tara's whereabouts. A friend of a friend of a thief thinks that he ran into a girl of her description at a party at the British Embassy. He was there casing the place for some sort of heist or other.

He thinks she was there with a gentleman named Picard or Kirk or something from Star Trek. He thinks she was an actress and he was a book dealer or something like that.

I have a direction now. It's a long shot but at least it is something. I begin to search for book dealers in Paris. I start with the dealers of rare and obscure books. If Tara learned anything from me it is that the old and hard to find are always more desirable.

I am amazed at how many little hole in the wall book shops there are in Paris.

After three days of browsing book stores I come across one so small and so out of the way that it would be impossible to find without a compass and a map. The store is dark and dusty. I wrinkle my nose a bit at the smell of musty books. The owner is sitting behind the counter. He is an older gentleman. Almost completely bald but still very attractive with a slightly hooked nose and dancing blue eyes. I start in on my queries. Questions about books that I know he can't possibly have. Collections of Shakespearean prose that have been missing for centuries. I know he doesn't have them because I know who does. I have plans to acquire some of these texts for myself. I tell him that I am an actress. I tell him how much I love to become Ophelia and Desdemona and Lady Macbeth. He loves Shakespeare too. Once upon a time he was a Shakespearean actor in London, a life time ago really. I mention an actress that I saw here once. A marvelous young blonde who portrayed the most spectacular Regan in a production of King Lear that I had ever seen. I can't remember her name but I remember that she was a collector of old plays as well. Did he happen to know who that might be?

The book dealer smiles. My heart skips a beat. He does know her. She comes here sometimes. She is very interested in one of his books, a very rare copy of Shakespeare's Henry VI. Had I heard of it? Not many people have. I nod and steer him back to the topic at hand. The book. The blonde. Oh yes. The book is not for sale of course. It is very expensive. It is his greatest treasure. His legacy. He can't imagine not coming to his little store and looking at his little book every day. I tell him I understand. That I would love to see his book. I promise I will be gentle. Back to the blonde. She likes the book? Does she come here often? When did he last see her?

"Oh she comes by here every now and then" he tells me, "she is very kind and knowledgeable and he enjoys her company very much". She always brings a fine wine to share. She knows a great deal about wine. I smile a bit at that. Well at least Tara got something positive from her time in my company. Her name is Giselle. He doesn't know when she might be back but he did see her the other night. He still has some important friends from his old theatre days and was invited to a party at the Embassy. He thought she might enjoy a night out.

I feel as if my heart is going to beat out of my chest. This is it. I have found her. Well at least I have found that she is still here in Paris and that she is likely going to come back by the book store soon. Most certainly she has her eye on the Shakespearean book. Her taste and her ambition have greatly improved in the last few years. All I have to do now is wait. Wait and try to think of something I can possibly say that might make her forgive me. I sleep well that night for the first time in quite a long time.

I spent the next few days wandering the streets adjacent to the book store, watching and waiting. I visit Picard and I bring him pastries and other treats. He really is a nice old guy. I am starting to really enjoy my time with him. We talk mostly about Shakespeare and his works and the thrill of being on stage and slipping into someone else's skin for a while. He and I have a great deal in common. He lets me touch his book while he looks on fondly. It really is a shame that he won't have his treasure for long. I begin to feel sorry for the old man. Well I do have a heart I guess. I just don't often let it out of its hiding hole very often. Having a heart hurts and I've had enough hurt for a while.

It has been almost a week and still no Tara. Or Giselle. I am beginning to feel discouraged. Maybe running into me spooked her. It surely threw me for a loop or two. But then I was able to finish my job wasn't I. Maybe I don't have as much heart as I should. I wait but I still have no idea what I am going to say if she ever comes back to me. Perhaps I should give up and go back to Versailles, pack my belongings and move on with my life. I can't quite make the decision though. One more day. One more day and she will come.

One more day finally arrives. I have slipped away from my watch on Picard and his store to fetch some pastries and tea to share with the old man. When I return I spy someone through the window. It is her. It has to be her. There is no one else on earth that it could possibly be. I freeze with my hand on the door. Bags with pastries and cartons of tea clutched in my other hand. I can't open the door and I can't move away. My mind races but any thoughts are drowned out by the beating of my heart.

Tara turns her back to the door to look at something Picard wants her to see. It is now or never. Flight or fight. I manage to open the door and slip quietly through. I set aside my tea and pastries and move towards the couple. Picard spies me and smiles. Tara does not notice. I move silently up behind her and I gently place my hand on her shoulder. Her spine stiffens in surprise and she turns to see who might be wanting her attention, a nice smile on her face. She turns to face me and her smile freezes. I see all of her emotions as they flash through her eyes. Curiosity, surprise, question, anger and then something else. Something dark that I don't quite recognize. I still don't know what I might say but I plead with her with my eyes. Just give me a chance Tara. Please just let me try and talk. You don't owe me anything but please just give me this.

Tara and I stand there for what seems like an eternity. Picard is looking from my eyes to hers, trying to figure out what is going on. I am obviously more than just a fan looking to meet her favorite actress. We have a relationship of some sort. He has no idea what kind of relationship it might be.

Tara finds her voice first and I ready myself for another barrage of angry words but none come. Instead she asks in a very low voice "what should I call you?" "Jennie will work for now." I answer. It's the name I have given to Picard. "Can we talk?" "Ok" she tells me softly. I still can't read the emotion in her eyes.

We take our leave of the bookstore leaving behind my tea and pastries and a very puzzled storekeeper. We walk in silence, next to each other but not touching. I can't feel any emotion in the space between us. We walk aimlessly in silence for the afternoon and much of the evening. Neither of us knows what to say to the other. We finally stop at a café with a beautiful view of the Eiffel Tower glowing brightly in the dark sky. She reaches for a piece of bread in the basket the waiter brings to us. She tears it into little pieces but she doesn't eat. I watch her. She's clearly struggling with emotion, I still don't know what. Finally she sighs and pushes the pieces of bread aside. She looks into my eyes. "I really did love you, you know" she says. "I really did". She looks young to me now, so much younger even than when we first met. "I know" I say softly. "And I loved you too, in my own way." "Then why did you leave me?" she begs. "Why did you lie?" "Why didn't you say goodbye?" Her eyes are large and moist. I feel tears of my own burning in my eyes. "I don't know why" I tell her "I guess I just couldn't." "I didn't have the guts. I'm a grifter, Tara. A thief. Its who I am. I need to move, to stay one step ahead of my past. I can't afford to be anywhere or anyone for any amount of time. Its just not who I am".

The look in her eyes changes. She pities me. I think that hurts more than the anger and the sorrow. "I don't know who you are Jennie or Portia or whatever your name is. I thought I did but now I don't." I whisper so softly that even Tara can't hear me "I don't know either."

So where do we go from here? I reach to touch her hand and she doesn't pull away. The warmth of her hand in mine feels good. Not in the hot electric way it used to feel but in a soft and friendly way. It is comforting to me and I hope that it is comforting to her as well.

We chat long into the night. The café has closed but we didn't seem to notice. The night is warm and neither of us has any place to be. We talk about the cons we've run and treasures we have acquired. She has learned to be a real grifter now, a top notch game player. She has learned all of the tricks I taught her and quite a few more. She's playing for real now. No more boats and bobbles. Paintings and rare bottles of wine and books are her thing. We talk about Picard. How sweet he is. How trusting. He's the perfect mark. She doesn't want to steal his book anymore either. Neither of us brings up Italy.

We make a plan to meet for lunch the next day. I go back to my hotel with my heart happy. I hope she is happy too. She deserves to be happy.

Tara is late for our lunch date. I begin to panic. She's not going to come. She still hates me. She'll always hate me. I deserve it. I was hoping we could be friends again but she learned one of my lessons well, the last one that I taught her. The most important one. She learned that even a close friend is no one to be trusted.

By the time she arrives at my table I have twisted myself into knots. She slides into her seat and stares hard into my eyes. The sweet young girl from last night is gone. She is more the scorned lover from the bar. She has more to say to me. I will listen. I owe her that and so much more.

She tells me that she did indeed learn from me that summer in Italy and she is grateful. She thanks me for pulling her from the dangerous life she was living. She thanks me for my lessons in grifting and in learning to live an upper class life. She tells me she's been practicing her characters and her accents in a perfect mimic of the accent Portia used. She tells me that I taught her that loving someone is only going to lead to heartbreak. That emotions have no place in her life. They are dangerous to her body and to her soul. She tells me she has learned to use people as well as I do.

Her words hurt. They hurt deeply. I am sad for the loving girl that she used to be. I am sad that I am the one who has brought her to this. I am sad for myself that I will never feel her love or her gentle touch.

"Now" she says, "I still think you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I still dream about having you in my bed at night. I don't know if we can still be friends but maybe we can still be lovers. Without any attachment of course." She smiles. I am stunned by her words. I don't know what to say. Her eyes are cold. Those soft sea blue eyes I see when I close mine at night now look like ice to me. This is the new Tara. The Tara who no longer needs to be taught her lessons. The sweet little girl has become a strong and confident woman, aware of her power and ready to use it. She reminds me of myself and that makes me sad.

I don't know how to respond to Tara's offer. I want her. I want her badly. I have never stopped wanting her. This new Tara is exciting and dangerous. I tingle inside. Want to tell her yes, that I will be what she wants. A dalliance? A release? Or does she just want to get even by using me like she still believes I used her. I want to take her in my arms and kiss her. Hard. I want to feel her anger and her lust. I want all of that inside of me.

Still I can't answer her. I feel as guilty as I do excited. I want her to be the Tara that I knew before. The Tara who was soft and gentle and full of life and questions. I shudder to think that I made her this cold. This calculating. I look into her eyes again, unsure of what I may do or say. She stares back at me. Waiting. Wanting. And then I see something else. I see hope. I see just a bit of the girl she used to be. I tell her yes.


End file.
